


pinned.

by slyther_ing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Choking, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Fluffy Ending, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Prefects' Bathroom, Rutting, Sex, well kinda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-01 19:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8635489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: A somewhat unordinary occurrence in the life (and bed) of Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood. 
[Possible drabble series]





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> God, I love when the tables are turned.

He can’t move his arms – can’t move them because Oliver’s got him pinned down to the mattress and usually, Marcus can throw him off. But usually, he’s not getting fucked six ways to Sunday, Oliver’s hips driving into him maddeningly quickly.

Marcus holds back a moan, bites into the pillow because he’s not about to give in – no matter how many times Oliver – oh _fuck_. Wood’s hips snap sharply and he can’t help it, groaning as he presses his face into the sheets.

“Yeah,” Oliver says, “Yeah, you’re going to take my cock, aren’t you?”

Marcus merely shudders as Oliver’s cock drives in particularly deep, hitting where he wants it to and bloody fucking hell, if he knew Oliver would get like this, he’d flirt with other people more often.

It’s not like he was trying to, particularly – the eager new Chaser for the Magpies has a reputation for being overly touchy-feely, and Marcus tolerates the kid. Nothing more, nothing less. A new teammate who’s not green around the gills is rare to come by, even in the professional world.

Oliver bites down, hard, on the plane of his shoulder, and Marcus feels the sting. It’ll bruise tomorrow. He knows from experience.

It’d been at the annual League Awards, and Oliver had sat there quietly and watched the Chaser talk Marcus’ ear off. Marcus had noticed, noticed the slight glare as the kid brushed his hand over Marcus’ shoulder in congratulations when the winner had been called.

But Oliver isn’t irrational about them. They've never given each other reason to be. 

“Nobody else,” Oliver murmurs against his ear, breath hot. Marcus shivers. “Nobody else could make you feel like this.”

Marcus nods his head in agreement. Nobody, truly, could take him apart like Oliver always can. Could read his body like a playbook, know all the kinks and stresses, know where to press and touch and mark and _god,_ if Oliver doesn’t let him come soon, he’s going to explode.

The fleeting touches at the banquet afterwards had gotten Marcus riled up – Oliver always darting out of reach before he could reciprocate. But then he’d been pressed up against the wall the moment they stepped back into their flat.

 

(“Saw you,” Oliver had murmured, voice coy. “With that new teammate of yours. Forgetting yourself, Flint?”

“What?” Marcus had said, caught off guard. “You can’t possibly think—”

“Darling,” Oliver cut him off, and the saccharine sweetness had been enough to tell Marcus that he was in for something, “Think you need a reminder, hm?”)

 

Oliver pulls all the way out and Marcus hears himself groan at the sudden emptiness, the lack of warmth as Oliver shuffles behind him. He’s flipped over urgently, and then a hand is at his throat – not quite constricting, but not gentle either.

Marcus knows the color is rising to his cheeks, and everything feels like little pinpricks, dotting his skin. Oliver presses him down again, thrusts in, continues to fuck Marcus with sole intent.

“Mine,” Oliver groans, as Marcus can’t help but tighten around him. “All fucking mine, I swear to Merlin, anybody could try but I’d never let them.”

He releases his grip on Marcus’ throat, and Marcus breathes heavily, the dizzying rush of oxygen burning his self-restraint.

“Oliver.” Marcus pants, trying to catch Oliver’s mouth but his boyfriend keeps just enough distance between them that Marcus fails. There’s something different in Oliver’s gaze tonight, and Marcus can’t put his finger on it – just knows Oliver hadn’t kissed him properly since the afternoon and right now, he wants to fix that.

Oliver kisses his forehead, his cheek, anything but his mouth and Marcus can’t help the whine from escaping him, already pent up from the steady rhythm of Oliver’s hips.

“M’yours. I’m yours, you know that.” Marcus tries, cranes his neck up, but Oliver just smiles.

“Yeah?”

His cock is tugged between nimble fingers, stroking sure and steady and Marcus can’t hold himself together anymore, screws his eyes shut, lets the moans spill out of his mouth.

“You’re going to beg for me.” Oliver says. There’s no room for disagreement, and Marcus has thrown his pride halfway across the room by this point.

“Yes,” He gasps, as Oliver’s hips pick up speed again. He’s dripping all over Oliver’s hand, making a mess.  “Oliver.”

At the sound of his name, Oliver dips down and finally, finally lets his lips connect with Marcus, and he kisses back like he wants to drown. Intense, focused – not a sliver of possibility that anyone could get between them.

“Beg.” Oliver says again, as his hips keep rolling.

“Please.” The word falls from Marcus’ lips before he can set himself right, and his voice cracks on the sound. Too focused on the feel of Oliver’s cock, friction rough, hot – too much for him to take and constantly pressing against that spot that makes him delirious with want.

“Please.” Marcus groans, before Oliver starts stroking and fucking again, thrusts rough and out of rhythm and then he feels the pleasure bursting in the pit of his stomach, blinding in its intensity, sticky strings of cum landing on his stomach. Feels Oliver pulsing inside him and relishes the strangled moan he’s managed to pull from Oliver’s throat

“Marcus, Marcus, oh god, oh god.” Oliver cries, and then promptly shuts himself up by kissing Marcus with fervor, teeth clacking and biting and Marcus revels in the attention.

“Mine,” Oliver whispers, pressing kisses all along Marcus’ brow. “Mine, don’t you ever forget that.”

Marcus buries his head into the curve of Oliver’s neck. He doesn’t think he’d ever want to.

***

“You’re so silly,” Marcus tells Oliver while the man brushes his teeth, curling his body around Oliver from behind. He nips a bit at Oliver’s shoulder – got to leave his mark somewhere, too. “So silly to think that I would be _flirting_.”

Oliver flashes him a foamy smile. Lets Marcus hold him while he spits and rinses his mouth. “Just because I know you wouldn’t doesn’t mean I can’t indulge the small bits of jealousy once in a while.”

Oliver tastes minty when Marcus kisses him again, pressed close against the bathroom counter. He can feel Oliver’s grin against his lips.

“Besides,” Oliver says, teasing. “You like it.”


	2. looking like a dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when you realize that somehow, quidditch captains have access to the Prefect's Bathroom as well. 
> 
> And then this happened because I highly doubt teenage boys wouldn't take advantage of it.

The Prefect’s Bathroom – as everyone knows – is one of the best parts of Hogwarts.

There’s some reason behind Quidditch captains having access to the bathroom, probably one old upstart of a captain getting ticked off about not getting the best of the best, but nobody questions it now.

Oliver likes it. The warm water and the large pool of a bath is perfect to soothe muscles and also swim laps in. The bubbles are a bonus as well.

As is the privacy.

He’s one for simple pleasures, and when you’ve been cooped up in a dorm room, constantly surrounded everyday by friends and classmates and nosy portraits, some alone time is well appreciated.

He has a ritual, and it’s almost down to an art. The water’s run first, just a tad too warm so that steam rises up and fills the room. Then the bubbles (the violet ones that smell like vanilla), enough so that the surface of the pool is filmed over with a thin layer.

And then he dips in, lathers his hair with shampoo, his body with soap, takes his time. It’s the anticipation that puts him on edge, thrill running underneath his skin, of knowing what’s coming next. The pleasure that’s waiting for him just around the corner.

Sometimes he casts a silencing charm, the sound of his own moans and pants enough to make him embarrassed. Other times, he relishes in the echo.

It starts slow – a fantasy, a whim, something that catches his eye. Sometimes a person, and more often than not, it’s one particular person that he can’t seem to shake.

Oliver knows he’s going to be cursing himself once this is over, of – thinking of _him_ while he’s fucking his fist, but he’d just gotten off the pitch, and anything related to Quidditch trails back to him.

It starts slow – his hand gripped lightly around the base of his cock, and he’s already half hard by the time he fully touches himself. Oliver pulls himself up by the side, let’s his feet dangle in the water and uses his free hand as support. Drags his thumb, light, across the slit of his cock and relishes the way his toes curl.

He’s alone, and he can take his bloody time, for once.

He fondles the head a bit, brushes the pad of his finger along that spot underneath the head of his cock, can feel his breath quicken at the faint teasing pleasure. At the first slow stroke, down and up, Oliver lets his head fall back, quiet moan leaving his lips.

The sensation of his hand on his cock is familiar, and Oliver’s mind wanders – imagines what it’d be like if it were a larger hand, a firmer grip, similar callouses brushing over his length. He tugs more roughly, slide of his hand growing slicker as pre-cum starts beading at the tip. The sounds are lewd in the otherwise empty chamber, and tonight, Oliver doesn’t feel like being quiet.

He lets his hand wander further down, runs his knuckles lightly over his perineum, rolls his balls in hand, moans as it sends shivers down his spine. His other hand, the one supporting him, is cramping up, and he wants two hands on him at this point – wishes it weren’t _his_ hands, but it’ll have to do.

Oliver lays down on the cool marble, a shock to his skin, and it lets his hips thrust up into the tight circle of his fist. He wonder’s what it’d feel like with his lips around him, tongue probably dancing and wicked, harsh sucks keeping him on edge.

Merlin, he’s going to come too fast if he thinks about that image any longer – Flint, on his knees, lips spit-slick and stretched around his cock.

Oliver reels himself in, intent on dragging it out – forces his hips to stop their jerking, and drags his palm up and down slowly. His skin’s beading with sweat, temperature of the room and his lust getting to him.

He pinches a nipple, and it makes him cry out – they’ve always been sensitive. One tweak at the right time could send him over the edge, and Oliver toes the line, let’s himself indulge in the sharp spikes of pleasure intermittently, each time drawing another gasp and a shaky moan, as his hand continues its steady pace.

Oliver lets his mind travel to the places he won’t admit to – Flint, pressing him down into cool sheets, taking him hard. Flint, grimy with sweat and dirt and stripping off in the showers. Flint, sucking a line of marks and biting on Oliver’s shoulder and making him shake with need, pressing his cock against his hole and sliding in, tight and hot and thick.

He’s so caught up, eyes screwed shut as he fucks into his fist harder, the ache almost unbearable, that he doesn’t hear the click of the door unlocking, doesn’t hear the clatter of a wand when he lets himself moan “ _Marcus.”_

“Fuck,” rings after his moan, and Oliver’s eyes fly open, jerks in panic as (oh Merlin, of all _people_ ) Marcus sodding Flint stands, staring wide-eyed at him by the bathing pool.

“Shit,” Oliver pants, scrabbling for something to cover him up, but his clothes and towel are by the other side of the pool, “What the – I locked it!”

His cry is shrill, and there’s really no redeeming himself now, because even with getting caught in the act, his cock is still standing proud, red and leaking, and Flint is just in a towel and gaping at him.

“Fuck you,” Oliver spits, shame and embarrassment and panic rising in his chest enough to render him incoherent and he’d been so close, and Flint is right there in all his bare-chested glory, but he’d been caught and –

“From what I heard, you’d like that, huh?” Flint says, catching him off guard. When Oliver dares to look over again, Flint’s shock has disappeared into something unreadable.

Marcus stalks closer. Oliver’s too turned on and confused to move, and by the time he comes to the realization that Flint’s expression is one of _hunger_ , Flint’s shed his towel and is caging him in to the ground.

“What are you doing?”

“Isn’t this what you want?” Flint replies, leering, and Oliver doesn’t know if it’s a joke or not, just knows that Marcus’ thigh is brushing against his cock in the most _delicious_ way and his hips are rocking up involuntarily.

Oliver tries to shove him away as Marcus comes to the realization that Oliver is grinding himself against his thigh, and starts snickering. But Flint’s solidly built and _oh god_ , he’s pressing down just a bit harder and it feels like heaven on his aching cock.

“Don’t fuck with me,” Oliver snarls, even though it loses its touch when it ends in a moan.

Flint huffs. “You look like a fucking wet _dream_. You think I’m not gonna take advantage of this?”

And before Oliver can process the words, process the fact that Marcus Flint has probably jerked himself off to the thought of _him_ (oh, and _that’_ s an image), Flint’s leaning his head down and taking Oliver’s nipple between his teeth, lightly _tugging_.

Oliver’s groan rings loud in the chamber, and his back arches, almost comes right then and there.

“Yeah?” Flint smirks, clearly pleased at the reaction he’s gotten. He’s pressed his hips flushed to Oliver’s now, and when he rolls his hips, Oliver’s hands fly out to grab Marcus’ shoulders, the friction too much at once.

“God, god,” Oliver moans, as Flint’s cock rubs against his.

“Thought you had my name down pretty well before,” Flint mouths a trail down Oliver’s neck and a large hand comes back up to pinch at the other nipple, forcing Oliver to bite his lip hard to keep from keening.

Flint’s hard and just as wanting as Oliver is, and when that thought makes its way through Oliver’s hazy brain, he realizes he should reciprocate. Leans up and tugs Flint’s bottom lip between his teeth, and the rumbling groan he gets makes him giddy.

And when Marcus grips his cock, strokes in that rough, quick way Oliver _knew_ he’d be good at, it’s too much, and he comes, thighs shaking and moan high and breathy in his throat. Flint practically growls, bends down to suck at a dusky nipple, makes Oliver writhe and whine beneath him because all the sensations and the _pleasure_ flooding his senses is too much.

He comes down from his high in a daze, what just happened falling into place, and Marcus is still rutting his cock against Oliver’s hip, groaning under his breath.

Oliver shrugs Marcus off, earns a frustrated moan which just fuels the adrenaline thrumming in his veins right now. Then promptly shuts Flint up as he arranges himself on his knees and closes his lips over the head of Flint’s cock.

“Fucking—” Flint curses, head thrown back, and Oliver lets him hold his head there, let’s Marcus thrust erratically in his mouth as he tries not to choke. Flint’s as thick as he imagined, and it’s taking all his effort in his inexperience to breath right now, but Marcus’ moans seem to show that he doesn’t mind.

Marcus’ whole body goes rigid when he comes, face smoothed over in an expression of bliss, and Oliver’s mouth is filled with hot stickiness, slightly bitter, and he swallows tentatively. Can still taste it on his tongue when he looks up to meet the gaze of his rival.

“Um,” is all he can manage, because how does one move forward from a situation like this?

Flint just stares back at him, breath still a little short. It’s the first time, Oliver’s realizes, that Marcus has looked at him with no trace of hostility.

“I – uh –” Oliver tries again, looking around for something to say.

“Need another bath?” Flint suggests, and if there’s a trace of curiosity and interest and maybe _hope_ in Marcus’ tone then, well –

Oliver can work with that.

“Yeah,” Oliver shrugs, slipping back into the still-warm water, “Um- wanna join?”

Flint lowers himself in slowly, grabs the shampoo and soaps himself up. A little more cautious in his movements than he’d been before, and Oliver doesn’t know what to say, really – “Hey, that was really hot and I’d like to watch you touch yourself sometime, to reciprocate” doesn’t seem appropriate, in _any_ given the circumstances.

“We – uh,” Flint says, after ten minutes of silence, “Don’t have to tell anyone about this.”

Oliver nods, of course, unsure of whether ‘this’ is a one-time deal or a standing offer.

Flint nods back firmly, but averts his gaze, seemingly having an internal argument with himself that Oliver’s not privy too.

Oliver makes to get out of the pool – should head back before Percy comes to find him, should head back before he blurts out something stupid like “Hey, Hogsmeade?” and embarrasses himself further.

But then he’s being snagged back by the arm when he wades past Marcus, and he’s expecting a lot of things – words of reminder to keep his mouth shut, a hasty insult, maybe just a shove back into the pool.

But not a kiss. Definitely not a kiss.

Flint’s lips are pressed hard against his, and Oliver doesn’t close his eyes for a split second, stares at the furrow of Marcus’ brow, and thinks that maybe Hogsmeade wouldn’t be that absurd of an offer after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew. 
> 
> there's definitely a future for our fave boys - thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This may blossom into a drabble series, for pieces I don't put on tumblr (mxrcusflint if you want to join me in hp fandom fun). But for now - here we are.


End file.
